This place, he thinks, is either an empty casket or a full tomb. It's hollow and enormous, it feels like all the people who are missing from it are standing just over their shoulders, staring down accusingly. It feels like turning around to face them makes them disappear, leaving a howling vacancy in their wake.

He feels the spirits of people who've never even set foot in the place, too.

The last thing he wants to do is go sit in his own sterile room by himself, blocked off by walls and locks, wondering if there's been some kind of delayed reaction and the two people in this building he actually gives a shit about maybe turned into dust overnight while he's pretending to sleep.

All the same, he nods once at Steve — more to telegraph appreciation than with any real intent to claim one just yet.

He's not much of a drinker, doesn't tend to turn to alcohol to solve his problems, doesn't like the loss of control over his faculties and his paranoia, resents the fogginess, but... if there was ever a time for it...

"There anything to drink around here? I could use a beer."

It's levelled at Natasha, and there's a subtler question underneath — if he doesn't wanna come, do you got him? She nods. Murmurs, "C'mon, kitchen's on the way. Should still be something stocked."

This is the story of how Frank Castle stole free booze from the Avengers.